War Games on Stage
Hosted by the gods,
Played out by,
Men and boys,
On stage.
Women and children,
Seated,
Protected by chicken wire,
With gutters,
Positioned beneath their feet,
Directing the flow of blood,
Into the purpled,
Pits of Hell.
On Biting The Hand That Feeds Us
No,
I disagree,
It is a far better thing,
To have bitten,
The hand that feeds us,
For it is that very hand,
The one having lulled us,
Into accepting,
The rules of the game,
An odious arrangement,
Requiring that,
Upon having been fed,
We become a slave!
Disturbing The Peace
Disturbing the peace,
Deliberately provoking,
People.
Diligently poking,
Punching,
Holes,
Straight through,
To the quick.
Surgical strikes,
Cleansing blows,
Meant to,
Tidy up,
A house of,
Of fallen cards.
The Draft
Winds a blowing,
A very cold draft,
Freezing the minds,
And bodies,
Of parents and their children,
Not a gentle breeze,
But rather,
A bitter rush,
To war,
Where cold-hearted,
Gray-haired men,
Sitting on,
Enormous thrones,
Of power,
Organize,
Our children,
Into death squads,
Teaching them,
How to kill,
In wars,
That are,
Not for freedom,
Nor even democracy,
But rather crusades,
A longstanding,
Rush toward empire,
An attempt,
To secure,
Enormous dominions,
Of wealth,
Every bit,
Built upon,
The gravestones,
Of the most wretched,
Of our land--the poor!
Frozen Souls
Frozen souls,
Cold to the core,
Dreary, damp, dark,
And mean,
Venom,
Hidden from sight.
Charming,
Good old boys,
Hand shaking,
Back slapping,
Men of good cheer.
Janus-faced creatures,
Shrink-wrapped in smiles,
Pious, flag-waving thugs,
Wicked and drenched in the blood,
Of those they have killed.
